


Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

by Rabenherz



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [10]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Bad Things Happen To Bad People, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Crucifixion, Deception, Dehumanization, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pre-Slash, Rating mainly for violence, The Courier Is Insufferable, Unhealthy Relationships, Vulpes Inculta Is No Fun At Parties, odd friendship, the legion being the legion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23352865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenherz/pseuds/Rabenherz
Summary: “I do not understand you,” Vulpes blurts one night, abrupt and exasperated.They have ended up at the Gomorrah again, and Vulpes despises this new pattern of theirs. The place is vile to a point that even the Courier does not seem to like it much, the air thick with bodies and bile and piss. But the lights are lower than in the other casinos, and it features a clientele that is, on the whole, unlikely to look one another in the eye.“I know,” The Courier drawls, casually flicking ash from the butt of his cigarette. “But do go on.”
Relationships: Courier/Vulpes Inculta, Male Courier/Original Male Character(s), Male Courier/Vulpes Inculta
Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628497
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Major, major thanks to BannedBloodOranges, who has not only edited this thing for me (and realistically contributed all of the good lines, but is generally much more patient with me than I deserve.

The old world was filled with music, it would seem. Vulpes knows this, for he has travelled far through profligate lands, and has caught the echoes of songs on the breeze.

They were all the same, thick with vice and sentiment; just another testament as to why cities and countries came to fall and crumble.

In the Legion they have drums and horns, flutes and even simple melodies the recruits will sing to themselves as they walk and work, but nothing as insidiously tenacious as those songs weaving tales of old sin. Having spent more time among NCR soldiers and caravans than most of his kind, Vulpes finds with some shame that he is perhaps less immune to them than he thought. 

_Oh_ , he thinks now, stunned and slowed, lying bleeding in the ruins and ashes of Cottonwood Cove. 

_Smoke gets in your eyes…_

  
  


_-+-_

  
  


“And you said Nipton was a town of whores.”

There are very few people who can creep up on Vulpes unnoticed, and fewer still who live to try it a second time. Today the Courier is saved by the ebb and flow of the public; a constant muddle of gamblers, drinkers, and human meat moving around them in the Gomorrah’s crowded bar.

“I did not think there was anything else to discuss,” Vulpes hisses. ”Your business is with Caesar.”

The Courier has made himself at home on the stool next to Vulpes, just short of much too close. During his surveillance Vulpes has seen him do this with others many times, forcing proximity and familiarity, acting like an old companion until his target drops their guard. 

“True, but it is a long walk to the river. Can’t blame a man if he wants to ask some questions first.”

“I owe you no answers, Courier.”

“Of course not, but I quite enjoyed our talk last time.” It is strange to see the Courier with his red hair slicked in Omerta fashion, though Vulpes thinks the grease in it matches his smile quite nicely. This is not the only time the Courier has changed his skin to match his surroundings. He wears leathers and too-tight pants for The Kings in Freeside, and suits of varying cuts and quality for the chieftains on the strip. Vulpes is not fooled, and perhaps only mildly vexed that the gray of their suits seems to match exactly. It makes him feel curiously visible. 

“Did you follow me here, Courier Six?”

“Evidently. And please, call me Arthur.” A wave grants the Courier a bartender’s attention, and he jerks a thumb to indicate Vulpes. “Two more of whatever he’s having.” 

His face contorts with visible displeasure when the clear liquid turns out to be only water. 

Vulpes snickers despite himself. How typical of the dissolutes to shun what is pure and good in favour of poison. 

“Good to see that my pain’s amusing at least,” the Courier says lightly, swirling the water around his glass and peering up through the bottom of it as though it is the finest liquor. “Not gonna lie, my friend, you’re a bit of a tough crowd to please. I delivered your message and everything! Told everyone who cared to listen of your Legion.”

Irritated, if mildly, Vulpes turns and leans in closer. 

“I am not sure why you would wish to please me,” he whispers sharply. The bar is too noisy and their voices are lowered, but to speak so freely of the Legion in a place crawling with profligates sets Vulpes’ teeth on edge. “You have at least some of Lord Caesar’s favour, to bear his mark. We recognise what you have done for us.” 

And what he cannot do. It is bad form to tell the eager that they are unsuited to life in the Legion, that the greatest mercy they can hope for is a collar and a whip. Vulpes has seen men like this, desperate to please in order to better their fate, though they may reek of disease and bleed whisky if you cut them. 

It is only natural; fear will make a man say anything.

Except this Arthur, loose in limb and looser with his smiles, seems unafraid.

“Glad to hear you were pleased. Sure there’s nothing else I can do for you before I set out to see the big man?” 

Vulpes imagines him with his teeth pulled, his hands bound. 

On his knees, naturally.

But perhaps he can be of some use first.

“Actually there might be,” Vulpes concedes reluctantly. “The reason I ventured into this den was to speak to one of our informants who has run into some difficulties with the Omertas.” He pauses, casting his eyes across the room suspiciously. “Though I think we ought to speak outside?”

Uninvited, Arthur clinks their glasses together.

“Splendid!” he exclaims.

  
  


-+-

  
  


Vulpes Inculta is not, by nature, a man who takes to doubting. 

This bone-deep need for black and whites is sometimes inconvenient, when he knows better than most that the Frumentarii exist in a world of shadows.

The man, Benny, screams and screams and screams himself hoarse as they drag him to the top of the hill. There is a small crowd that follows; mostly the youngest recruits and their teachers, a few curious slaves who happen to be passing with their loads. Crucifixions are no longer a spectacle when you are at war, and few out here have heard of the chieftain Benny Gecko, ruler of the Tops Casino. A fool who thought that he might topple giants. 

Today Vulpes also follows, though he is not here for Benny either.

 _It helps_ , decides Vulpes, watching impassively as a thrashing Benny’s arms are forced to the beams, _that there are at least a few fundamental truths_. 

On the whole, people are either Legion, or they are filth. 

The Courier stands with his hands in his pockets, observing with a wry smile as the man he condemned is put to a slow, agonizing death. Most of the dissolutes Vulpes has known baulked at the thought of crucifixion, deriding it as a cruel, barbaric thing.

There is nothing in Arthur's eyes.

Perhaps Vulpes is wrong. 

He observes Arthur with a smile, and idly scratches at his chin. 

Perhaps some people can be both. 

  
  


-+-

  
  


“I do not understand you,” Vulpes blurts one night, abrupt and exasperated. 

They have ended up at the Gomorrah again, and Vulpes despises this new pattern of theirs. The place is vile to a point that even Arthur does not seem to like it much, the air thick with bodies and bile and piss. But the lights are lower than in the other casinos, and it features a clientele that is, on the whole, unlikely to look one another in the eye. 

“I know,” Arthur drawls, casually flicking ash from the butt of his cigarette. “But do go on.” Back turned towards the bar, the Courier leans on his elbows, taking up much more space than he requires. 

Vulpes cannot help but snap. “Do you truly think there will be a place for someone like you in the Legion?” 

The question has been circling through his mind for weeks. If he has learned anything at all about Arthur it is that the man is no fool, though he plays the part well. Arthur even aims to feign ignorance now, what with the quizzical tilt of his head, but Vulpes is not in an indulgent mood. 

Indeed, perhaps he has been too patient of late. 

His mind’s eye burns with an image of Arthur on his knees in a filthy Westside back alley, shamelessly letting his mouth be used by some greasy thug with torn jeans. The man’s thick fingers had been fisted so tightly in Arthur’s mop of red hair that Vulpes had half-presumed violence, if not for the fact that Arthur’s hand had been frantically working between his own legs at the same time. 

_You were late_ , Arthur had explained later, bruised lips twisted in a stomach curdling grin. _I got bored._

It was the last time Vulpes would ever permit the Courier to choose the time and place of their meeting. 

“You know precisely what I mean,” Vulpes hisses now. “How do you reconcile the sordid display you make of yourself with the work you do for us?” 

“Alright, alright,” soothes Arthur. “If a heart-to-heart will make you feel better, I guess I’d better confess.” 

Arthur takes a deep drag of his cigarette and leans in, close enough to whisper a secret. His cheeks slightly puffed, with thin curls of smoke trickling out of the corners of his lips.

Vulpes regards him, stern. “You would not dare.”

Arthur cocks his eyebrow before the erupting laughter chokes in his throat, and he disappears, briefly, in a smoke cloud as he coughs.

Vulpes snickers, even as he cannot change the thought that this, too, was orchestrated. Some pathetic play at distraction, but he will not be deterred.

“You were saying?” 

Arthur swallows the rest of his drink with a grimace. 

“Alright, alright,” he repeats with a sigh. There is a small crack along the rim of his glass, not pronounced enough to cut, but sufficiently distracting that Arthur keeps picking at it with his short nails. “I s’pose you’ve earned some sort of explanation by now. Might need a little something to get me through the night, though, if you’re expecting me to get all soul-searchy.” 

A sharp click of his fingers summons the bartender, a sour-faced wretch of a boy with rotten teeth and the tell-tale clouded eyes of the habitual chem-user. 

“Some more of the good stuff, if you please,” Arthur commands with a wink. “Top shelf purified water for my esteemed friend as well; none of that nasty pipe business.”

The barman briefly disappears to refill their glasses, and Vulpes decides to voice what both of them are thinking.

“You are unbearable.” 

Arthur shrugs. 

“Ah, I know,” he admits lightly. “That is rather the point, actually, when it comes right down to it. I know I’m dirt, as far as you lot are concerned. And you’re not wrong; I’d be rapidly fucking and drinking my way to an early grave even if there wasn’t a collar waiting with my name on it somewhere. Not that I don’t think the big C might not be a bit more lenient with a loyal dog than you’d give him credit for - even if it chews the furniture a bit once in a while. But if we’re running on the assumption that I’ll eventually be put down like a bitin’ bitch, well... “

Not usually one at a loss for words, the Courier bridges the gap by gesturing expansively. 

“Whatever it takes to make the trains run on time, I suppose? Don’t think I ever got ‘round to telling you, but I was born in a dance hall up in Reno. A glorified whorehouse, really. I knew the sound of screwin’ and screamin’ before I could walk or talk. The nights were filled with it. Mom was an addict and left me to be raised by her drag queen friend, and you’ve gotta admit this explains a lot about me.”

Arthur knowingly taps his brow with the flash of a humorless grin before reaching for his glass again. 

“For as long as I can remember, life’s been pretty damn wild. You think your little stunt in Nipton would have curdled my blood? Please. I’ve seen folks sell their kids for chems and near enough smash each other’s faces in over a sip of whisky, ‘cause that would have been the only thing to get ‘em through the night. I know that I’m part of the damn problem by now, so maybe don’t sign me up for clean livin’, but if there’s a better future for kids like me in the cards I’d be more than willing to make that happen.”

Vulpes stares at Arthur, drinking in the quasi-sincere expression, the almost sheepish slump of his shoulders.

He snorts.

“That was the greatest pile of utter nonsense I have ever heard come out of your mouth, Courier,” he says eventually. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that the self-confessed narcissist hates himself?”

Arthur’s blue eyes grow stormy. He smirks and knocks back his drink in one large gulp. 

“Oh well. It was worth a try.”

Vulpes laughs derisively, and mockingly copies Arthur's frank swig of his drink. 

And then promptly spits it out, choking paint stripper Vodka over his silk trousers, and Arthur's resulting laugh deafens even the infernal music pumping out of the speakers.

  
  


-+-

  
  
  


In Vulpes’ nightmares, Arthur appears as a flame-haired spectre, looking up from between Vulpes’ splayed thighs with wild eyes and lolling tongue. 

Hands bound. Teeth pulled.

  
  
  


-+-

  
  


The discovery that Picus has been neglecting to send reports back from Camp McCarren due to his death by the Courier’s hands comes as an immense relief.

A great loss for the Legion’s efforts in enemy territory, certainly, but also a relief in so far as that it is good to know where one stands with people. 

Men are Legion, or they are filth. There is no space for halves or maybes. 

Vulpes does not rest in his haste to carry what he has learned back to the fort, even if it means tearing his immaculate profligate skins to tatters as he rushes through fields or cazadores and fire geckos. He must look quite the state by the time he pushes through to Caesar's tent, for his Lord looks upon him as though he is a madman. 

“I know about Picus,” snaps Caesar irritably. “Your friend the Courier has told me all about his and Silus’ little plan to desert our ranks and share our secrets with the profligate whoresons.”

Vulpes is frozen. 

“What?” he asks, frantic, before he can even come to regret his incredulous tone.

Caesar pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut. It is clear that he is in the throes of one of his maladies, and Vulpes’ heart sinks. “You’re late, Vulpes. Arthur- ah, no. Sextus, as if his new title, has told me everything already. If you hurry you might still see him before he leaves. Now get the fuck out and clean yourself up, man. I- I need to rest...”

Upon all his years of servitude and devotion, Vulpes has never imagined that a day would come when he might be tempted to argue with Caesar. As things are, he mutters an apology and leaves, humiliated, and with his tail between his legs. 

Dejected as he is, it isn't enough to douse his anger.

He finds Arthur in the tent of the Frumentarii, half-clad in Legion reds.

Later that night he will learn that Caesar has elevated the Courier to the rank of Decanus. 

The world has grown quite mad.

  
  


-+-

  
  


Later Vulpes will try to remember his first encounter with Courier Six as a historic thing. Heavy, meaningful, fated. He will try to recall seeing a creature emerge from the ashes and smoke of that nowhere town, that nothing place, a creature half-snake and half-human, with burning eyes and hundreds of faces.

But really, there was only ever a man. Unarmored and unafraid in flannels and leather boots. Just one face, and one so painfully commonplace as to be forgettable. 

At the time Vulpes thought their meeting providence.

“What a remarkable thing you have done here,” the Courier had said pensively, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the lines of bloody scarecrows in the fields. He’d turned to Vulpes then, lips splitting in a smile that was as wide as it was surprising, teeth glinting brightly in the firelight. 

“You want a messenger, do you? Tell me more about your Legion.”

  
  


-+-

  
  


Vulpes Inculta, greatest of the Frumentarii, the most loyal dog of the Legion, eyes and ears of the great Caesar himself nearly missed the burning of the Fort. 

What chance would that have been! A half-day prior and his body would be buried in the piles of flesh, dirt and pitch. A half-day later, and he might have stood in the embers, too late, but still alive and able to carry the message to Lanius across the river.

Of course, the Legate would have had his head, his spine, his skin, his bones for daring to survive when Caesar did not, for slipping from death’s grasp by poor, mundane chance as opposed to any skill or machination. 

It would have been a better fate. At least he might have had some use.

As things are, Vulpes Inculta arrives just in time to bear witness. Still clad in the skins of the profligates, he dashes down the hill into Cottonwood Cove, lungs burning with the smoke he drinks down like water. All is red and black with blood and tar, and he shrieks at the last few recruits who scatter about him like frightened children in their scramble to get away from the camp. Someone has freed the slaves, and they fall upon the wounded soldiers, weak but plentiful, and with all the hunger and ferocity of a starved pack of coyotes. Even in his fox’s skin they sniff out Vulpes soon enough, turning their claws on him. 

The slaves’ weapons are mostly improvised; a rock here, a shovel there, the odd abandoned spear, a gun no-one has taken the time to reload. Vulpes does not carry his Ripper to the lands of the dissolute; only a knife and a loaded pistol as insurance against their unpredictability. It is enough now to take down at least a few of the vermin, to tear out throats and shoot out an eye, but you cannot kill a swarm of locusts with six shots and a blade.

They overwhelm him eventually; through the heat of the battle there is not much pain, but he can feel steel pierce his flesh by his shoulder and calf. Dozens of hands grasp at him, bruising and tearing, and all he can see is flesh and smoke, all he can taste is blood and death.

But somehow the swarm does not devour him. Somebody commands and the beasts scatter.

Vulpes hits the ground and for an instance, the world goes dark. When he comes to, moments later, the commotion still flows around him, and his confused mind is heavy with a mocking chorus of old songs. 

Hands, filthy warm, cup Vulpes’ cheeks and neck to check for vitals. Though he cannot see the man’s face, Vulpes thinks he knows him immediately, but there is no strength left in him to resist. 

Of course this is how they die, by the bite of the viper they invited into their midst. 

Over the Courier's shoulder, Vulpes is heaved with a grunt, and he is carried away from the fire and the fighting, away from whatever remains of the Legion at Cottonwood Cove. They make it up the hill overlooking the encampment before Arthur, exhausted with the strain of Vulpes’, lays him down beneath one of the crosses still standing as a final reminder of Caesar's might. 

Here, the cool air tempers the stink of the fires. The breeze clears some of the fog from Vulpes’ mind, but still his limbs do not obey him. All he can do is watch the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest as the Courier catches his breath. That mocking grin, the triumphant speech. All that Vulpes half expects never comes to pass, only a half-lost glance that seems to tell him _you were not supposed to be here._

How peculiar.

Arthur moves out of sight, and Vulpes dimly wonders if somehow his final trip into the maw of the Strip was orchestrated, was meant to shield him from this massacre. An impossible thought, of course, and it feels foolish, sickening for its near-wishfulness. 

Vulpes's stomach twists with fervour and he wants to scream for the waste of it all. Scream for the loss, for his own foolishness. If only he can clamber to his feet-

But there is a shadow, freezing him in place.

He looks up. 

Courier Six stands above him, unsmiling still, an enormous, broken beam gripped tightly in his hands. Straining, he lifts it above his head, the bloated sun crowning him, and Vuples thinks, dizzily, of David and Goliath.

There is nothing in Arthur's eyes. They are as empty as the sky above. 

He brings it down.

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, Vulpes and Arthur get this rather intense mutual notion of "What a crying shame that you had to be a profligate/legionary".
> 
> Also, just putting it out there, but Benny did not deserve that.


End file.
